The works of lord Byron

O'er every feature of that still, pale face,
Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase:
The tender blue of that large loving eye
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy,

Till-Oh, how far!-it caught a glimpse of him,
And then it flow'd-and phrensied seem'd to swim
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd
With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd.

"He's gone!”—against her heart that hand is driven,
Convulsed and quick-then gently raised to heaven;
She look'd and saw the heaving of the main;

The white sail set-she dared not look again;

But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate-
"It is no dream-and I am desolate!"

XVI.

From crag to crag descending-swiftly sped
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head;
But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way
Forced on his what he would not survey,

eye

His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep,
That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep:
And she-the dim and melancholy star,

Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar,

On her he must not gaze, he must not think,

There he might rest-but on Destruction's brink: